


[after the] summer of 69

by vanilla_alia (ashheaps)



Category: Bandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1960s, M/M, Multi, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-07 01:29:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/742581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashheaps/pseuds/vanilla_alia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>man we were killin' time. we were young and restless. we needed to unwind.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	[after the] summer of 69

The first time that Pete takes him to one of the parties, Patrick ends up getting sick thirty minutes after stepping out of the car, way before anything other than odd introductions can occur. Pete rubs Patrick’s back as he rests his head between his knees while Pete takes him home. Patrick spends the next week reading Pete’s crisp Thor comics and eating saltines and forcing Kevin to sleep on the couch in fear of him catching whatever the hell he has in their shared bedroom. He ends up sleeping a grand total of 75 hours that week and Kevin seizes the opportunity to claim some of the socks in Patrick’s drawer for his own. He finds more than socks in the drawer but never asks Patrick about it.

+

They met at the career fair in September of Patrick’s sophomore year. Pete was working a booth to sway youth into joining the Students for a Democratic Society movement in clear defiance of the SDS’s dissolution just the summer before. After thirty minutes of trying to draw a crowd to his booth, Pete had flopped down in his fold out chair and proceeded to look dejectedly at every uninterested student that walked by. Patrick really had no interest in talking to the numerous armed forces officers, dressed in their respective uniforms and making eye contact with each individual who turned in the registration card, so he had approached Pete’s booth with the excuse that there was really nowhere better to be.

Turns out Pete had attended Woodstock, which Patrick had lots of questions about, and they ended up talking through the entire career fair. Patrick found himself hauling boxes down the hallway while Pete relived each performance as a member of the massive crowd through exaggerated verbal depictions. Before Patrick could ask about Hendrix, Pete had scribbled a telephone number on the back of a SDS promotional card with a tiny peace sign at the end of his name.

+

They develop a sort of routine, talking on the phone when Patrick gets home from school and before Pete goes to work in the afternoon at the restaurant. After weeks of conversation on the phone, Pete finally asks if Patrick wants to meet him, so they can see each other again. And then their routine changes. They talk on the phone all the same except on Wednesdays, when Pete works afternoons. Usually on weekends (and sometimes Wednesdays) they take to meeting somewhere remote and heading towards the park Patrick used to ride his bike to in the summer when his mom would only ask that he come home for lunch and to check in with her. 

So Pete waits at the corner of Patrick’s block after dinner and they walk four more to the nearest park. Since the dark is slowly inking into the sky and all families are currently watching Howard Smith on ABC News while one unfortunate member is stuck with the responsibility of doing the dishes, the park is peaceful. Gloriously empty, so they go for the swings. Soon the exhilaration of swinging wears off and their legs get tired, so Pete works really hard at twisting the swing and lifting his feet off the ground, which results in the swing spinning so fast that it twists the other way. He does this exactly three times before he wants to throw up.

Patrick just watches, digging the toes of his Chucks into the sand, drawing circles and not knowing what to put in them. He makes the shape easily enough but then ends up pushing the sand back into the little ditches, covering the tracks. Patrick leans his head against the chains that support the strip of wood and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, it’s nearly just as dark outside, like a blanket has been placed over the sky. However, the moon is full and incredibly bright, so the deep blue of everything exists only beyond the surfaces that the moon can reflect.

“Do you think all that this summer was real? With Armstrong and everything?” Pete’s looking up at the moon and biting at his lip.

“I don’t know. No use in really believing otherwise.” Patrick gives the moon a pensive look.

“My friend Andy thinks it’s all a sham. He has a point, you know? It’s not like they don’t lie to us about other issues, so why not that?” Pete says bitterly. Patrick knows Pete’s trying to get into a discussion but Patrick’s having none of that. Today has been a weird day and he’d rather just sit on the swing and not think at all instead of discussing the great depths of the current political system. They sit in silence while Pete figures out new ways to mess with his swing and Patrick pulls four times on his shirt bunching at his abdomen. 

“Your dad,” is all Pete says, voice clear and bold. Patrick looks over nervously and then back to the ground.

“Yeah.”

“He’s not at home.” Pete pushes his swing side to side. 

“You could say that.” Patrick draws another circle about the size of an orange then erases it. 

“I know it’s not my business and my mom would be horrified if she heard me right now, but-”

“It’s fine,” Patrick interrupts softly. “He died. In Saigon during the Tet Offensive last January.” He’s told the same line to people at school for the past year and doctors wearing tweed overcoats in fake leather chairs and everyone who asks. Pete seems stunned, silent but not positively so. 

“Patrick,” he whispers, his swing still and motionless.

“It’s okay. I’m okay.”

“I never knew. You never even said anything.” Pete is clearly struggling over which question to ask next. “Sorry” just doesn’t seem appropriate even though he’s sorrier than ever. Patrick shrugs.

“I don’t really like to say much about it.” Patrick reminds him in a low voice. Pete waits a few moments before he speaks again.

“How long was he over there?” Patrick shakes his head.

“Not very long at all. Four months.”

“He was-” Pete leaves the statement open ended.

“Drafted,” Patrick says with a sense of finality. He drags the rubber toe of his shoes around in the dirt, forming one large circle about the size of his outstretched arms. Having decided, he divides the circle in two with a line down the middle. Then he adds an angled line, broken over the center and the ends resting at the bottom. Pete watches and smiles a sad smile. They are careful not to step on the peace sign as they dismount the swings and head back for Patrick’s house.

+

Thankfully, Kevin is an unusually heavy sleeper. So when Patrick nearly manages to drop the window sill on his fingers, all Kevin does is turn over and pull his bedcovers tighter around his body. Patrick bites his lip and pries open their bedroom window once again. He hoists one leg through and kicks a little at the bushes planted just outside. Bending at the waist and sliding out rather ungracefully, landing all but upside down in the mulch, Patrick finally makes it out of his house. Sneaks, actually. He has a brief moment of panic but checks that his house key is still on the string around his neck under the striped t-shirt and band jacket he’s wearing.

He starts walking down the sidewalk at a brisk pace, barely overcoming each urge to look back at his house which he knows will lead to him chickening out, once again, and calling Pete from the hallway phone that he conveniently drags into the linen closet whenever he needs privacy. Mostly due to the fact that it’s currently ten at night and he’s most definitely not in his room asleep like his mother says he should be.

Patrick sits on the curb at the end of his street and waits, looking down the empty intersection for the beam of headlights. Not but three minutes later, Pete’s car whips up beside the curb. Patrick jumps up, Converse shoes gritty against the pavement of the street he’s lived on all his life and opens the passenger door.

The principle operations, which are really nothing more than “hanging out” and “getting bent,” run from Jon’s house tucked innocently enough in a remotely vacant suburb. Pete calls it “home base.” Patrick has never been to Jon’s house before and upon inspecting the outside of it, he’s not really sure Pete’s brought them to the right place. The distinct howl of Bob Dylan is airing through the house as they first enter without knocking. The front room is empty and Pete turns to Patrick. 

“Here, take your coat off,” Pete instructs as he removes his own. Pete hangs their jackets on the same hanger and Patrick doesn’t feel particularly warm inside. They start down a hallway towards the back area of the house and a dark haired man, shorter than Pete but taller than Patrick emerges from the kitchen doorway.

“Hey,” the man says and pulls Pete into a hug. Pete greets him equally and turns to Patrick.

“This is Jon. Jon, Patrick.” Jon gives Pete a strange look but pulls Patrick into a hug regardless. Patrick notes that Jon’s clothes smell strange and the first three buttons of his shirt are flapping open, exposing a bare chest. 

“Pete, Ryan’s here.” Jon’s voice drops.

“How long has he been here?” Pete asks. He doesn’t try to leave Patrick out of the conversation, but Pete’s gaze is focused on Jon, and his voice is quiet, clearly trying to keep their words between each other. Jon scratches at his bearded jaw.

“Since three or so. He bought a lot from Bill and he’s sort of gone. I can’t tell if it’s a bad trip or not though. I’ve never seen him like this.” Patrick can hardly believe what he’s hearing. However mind-boggling, he swallows his awe when Pete and Jon start moving into the kitchen. He follows them through and into an open space filled with couches. The source of the music is the record player, currently the centerpiece of the room as it spins on the coffee table. Varieties of thin records are catalogued in milk crates throughout the room under posters and paintings. 

Two boys are sitting next to each other on the couch, passing a bong back and forth slowly. Thousands of thoughts flash through Patrick’s mind in a vague synthesis of shock, danger, disbelief, disapproval and curiosity. Pieces of the conversation drift back to him.

“Brendon’s with him now. We were all in there earlier, you know, doing like always and he spazzed out. Crying and yelling and really fighting, you know?” Pete nods, listening intently to Jon’s hushed voice. Patrick realizes that he’s staring rather rudely at them, but also notes that they have stopped outside of a door decorated with a tie-dye poster hanging down the front.

“Brendon stayed with him, but they’ve been in there for an hour and I think he might want you to go in.” Jon turns to Patrick abruptly and Patrick’s caught with his mouth open in a failed response. Pete reaches out and grabs Patrick’s elbow encouragingly.

“It’s cool, everything’s okay, Patrick.” Jon gives Patrick a small smile and then an unrecognizable look in Pete’s direction before turning and joining the two others on the couch. Pete leans in and keeps his hold on Patrick’s elbow.

“Don’t worry. Everyone’s totally fine. Yeah?” Patrick nods and follows Pete as he pushes open the door and leads them in. The first thing Patrick thinks when he surveys the scene is something along the lines of panic and sinfulness. Because first of all, there are two decisively male figures on a mattress in the corner. And second of all, Patrick’s heard and thought about this, but he’s never actually seen people having sex—much less two guys. Except the one kneeling over the other, with big lips and Beatle cut dark hair, sort of stops and looks relieved when he sees Pete.

Pete crosses the room to touch the dark haired boy’s shoulder and of course, Patrick lags behind a little, but ends up standing at an awkward distance from the mattress. 

“Brendon. Patrick.” Pete introduces quickly. Brendon smiles and tips his forehead at Patrick as if they had met in the hallway at school and not in someone’s bedroom while in the middle of a pretty personal act. Pete kneels on the mattress beside the other boy who’s making small whining noises while horizontal. 

“Hey Ryan, you okay?” Pete asks comfortably, smoothing out the boy’s hair. He pushes it back and feels his bare forehead with his palm. 

“Pete,” is all Ryan says, directing his attention from Brendon to Pete. Ryan fists handfuls of Pete’s t-shirt and starts whispering.

“I’m like bread inside, Pete. I am. A whole loaf. And there are knives.” He pauses, silent, and Patrick realizes that Brendon’s pulled out of him, letting Ryan’s knees flop out to the side as if they have no sort of muscle. His mumbling stops completely and his face goes totally blank. Pete looks to Brendon.

“He’s drifting back and forth. Has been for a while,” Brendon palms his cock openly, tugging at it a little, “long while.”

“C’mon Pete. You’re the first knife. Cut me again, Pete. Come on. Slice me up.” Ryan’s pushing at Pete’s shirt, mussing it up his chest and making clumsy motions at the front of his pants. For the first time, Patrick feels totally out of place and far too young to be anywhere near this house. Pete turns around and looks at Patrick, ignoring Ryan’s movements.

“You can stay and watch. If you want. Everything’s okay,” Pete assures him as he unbuttons his pants for Ryan. He drags the zipper down slowly, looking at Patrick all the while, who is unceremoniously standing his ground. Brendon backs off and moves to lie beside Ryan and Pete shimmies out of his pants then replaces Brendon in his position. Patrick drops to his knees slowly, sitting back and watching with doe eyes. Patrick gets the first clear glimpse of Ryan and is almost horrified to find that he’s not much older than himself—two, maybe three, years. 

Ryan looks expressionless at Patrick but reaches out, beckoning Patrick over. Patrick throws Pete a wild look, confused as to Ryan’s intentions. Pete leans forward and takes Ryan’s hands in his own, stilling their shaking that has become apparent. The insides of his wrists are dotted with little squares of bright colors and the image is one Patrick has once again heard of, but never actually encountered.

“This is Patrick, Ryan. He’s my friend.” Patrick didn’t expect the change in Ryan’s face, but it twists into somewhat of a scowl. Patrick bites at his lip and he’s sure he looks confused because Pete’s squeezing Ryan’s hands and trying to get his attention.

“Hey, look at me.” Begrudgingly, Ryan does such with hurt laced in his eyes. He seems offended and set back. Pete lets go of Ryan’s hands and procures a bottle from somewhere on the other side of the mattress. He pours some lube in his hands and puts one to Ryan’s cock. He’s barely even hard and Pete’s trying his best to make it good for Ryan. Pete palms his own cock with the lube still on his hand, already prominently stiff, and preps himself. Patrick’s nearly mesmerized and somewhere between watching Pete wet his cock and listening to Brendon jerk himself off in the space next to Ryan, Patrick forgets that he’s ever existed outside of this strange and mostly empty room.

So before he can get any grounding, he’s knocked off his bearings again as Pete moves slowly closer to Ryan and it doesn’t take much for Patrick to realize that maybe he shouldn’t be watching, yet again. Ryan moans and breathes loudly while Pete cradles Ryan’s skull in his hands. He sweeps his thumbs across the ridges of his face, stroking softly at his cheeks, brushing along the grain of his eyebrows. Ryan’s hand is planted on Pete’s hip; he mumbles words that sound like Pete’s name but drawn out and twisted, nails white.

Ryan’s eyes clench tight, shutting out all external stimuli. Patrick can’t help but look up and down their bodies, at Pete moving rhythmic and slow against Ryan, the slip-slide of his cock into Ryan matching the Dylan record still audible through the door. Ryan starts scratching, rubbing at his eyes with the blunt ends of his hand. On the other end, Pete’s touching every part of Ryan he can reach, tenderly holding, worshipping the skin and muscle just below before moving to the next area that begs for his attention. A mutated form of jealousy spreads throughout Patrick and he first notices that Brendon is clumsily sliding his hand down Ryan’s torso.

Brendon wraps his hand around Ryan’s cock, only half-hard, and pulls lovingly, fingertips not-so-accidentally brushing over Ryan’s balls. He cries out for more, please. Having abandoned his own erection, Brendon funnels all attention to Ryan’s dick.

Patrick keeps thinking the moment will freeze and the scene at hand will gloss over and become the dirty magazine Pete let him borrow that he keeps in his sock drawer. Thinks that maybe he’s been living some illusion of grandeur, Pete a mere figment borne from his imagination and that Patrick really is the only boy on the planet that doesn’t like Daisy Duke or shooting guns across the world. 

Patrick shifts positions, searching for the most comfortable and least constraining, and Pete looks over at him nearly immediately. Pete’s a broken record of assurance and while he braces Ryan’s thighs to his own side he keeps repeating “it’s okay, it’s okay.” And for the first time in a long time, Patrick can name the cold itch that rises in his body. He wants to belong to something, wants to be wanted and desired and sought after and something must look strange because Pete’s face softens, if possible, even more and he looks about two deep breaths from falling asleep.

Brendon, kneeling awkwardly at Ryan’s side, comes first. All over Ryan’s stomach. At first, Patrick feels somewhat horrified, but Ryan just arches up more and, if anything, participates more emotionally afterwards. Brendon falls backwards onto the floor, chest heaving and watching. Pete palms Ryan’s cock for himself and Ryan’s legs grip tighter around Pete’s waist.

“Sunbeam, Pete, Sunbeam. Slice me up, god damn, please. Need it,” Ryan finds his altered voice. Pete throws one final desperate look in Patrick’s direction and then pulls out of Ryan. He jerks off for the whole of three seconds before coming on Ryan’s torso, mixing in with Brendon. Ryan moans and arches a bit, touching his own cock and coming with exaggerated cries onto himself, all the while Pete rubbing the inside of his thighs lovingly.

There’s an amiable silence in the room directly afterwards. Patrick didn’t even participate and yet his ears still ring. He realizes that the erection he’s sprouting at this point will be undeniable if he stands, so he settles for watching the other three move about each other from an awkward sitting position. Ryan lets his body go boneless, covering his face with his forearms. Brendon sits cross-legged beside his head and gently pushes Ryan’s hair away from his damp forehead. Grabbing a spare article of clothing from the floor, Pete wipes over his cock and goes to do the same for Ryan. 

Slowly, Pete drags the worn orange cloth across Ryan’s taut stomach; Ryan curves into Brendon’s movements and lets Pete smooth him down, paying careful attention to each ridge of rib, the valleys in between, as he cleans him off. Bundling up the shirt, Pete tosses it to the floor beside the mattress and meets eyes with Patrick, who has been completely shell shocked and immobile during the whole scene. Pete smiles apologetically and turns back to the other two boys. 

Ryan, head now in Brendon’s lap is crying silently. Pete leans over and kisses Ryan’s forehead solemnly, whispering “Brendon’s going to take care of you, okay? Brendon will take care of you.” 

Pete moves similarly and kisses Brendon’s cheek before standing and tugging his pants back up around his hips. They don’t sit much higher, but it’s an improvement.

“You ready?” Pete asks in Patrick’s direction. _For what, exactly_ , crosses Patrick’s mind but nothing is formed on his lips. Pete reaches down a hand for Patrick to pull himself up with and Patrick grasps it and does such rather clumsily, still mindful of his erection that’s not showing any signs of letting up. Ryan giggles distantly from the mattress and Patrick feels his face blush hard. But Pete doesn’t let go of his hand. He pulls them towards the door.

“It was nice meeting you,” Brendon calls.

“You too.” Patrick’s voice cracks within the span of the two syllables. There are more people in the room than there was when they entered the bedroom. A Pink Floyd record is playing and four people are squished onto a couch, heads lolling on each other’s shoulders or the back of the couch. Jon’s on the floor, elbows holding a loose grasp on his knees and he looks completely at home, which reminds Patrick that this is his home and that Patrick is most definitely in it and he doesn’t even know this man. Neither does his mom, which would normally make him nervous. Instead, Pete squeezes his hand and surprisingly doesn’t let go and Patrick just feels the rush of what he thinks might be rebellion.

“We’re going to head out,” Pete says to Jon. 

“Oh hey,” Jon hops up, “let me walk you guys out.” You guys, like it’s normal for Pete and him to be holding hands in front of a room of strangers. Really good looking strangers who haven’t said a word. Jon falls in stride with Pete as they make their way to the front door.

“So how is he?” Jon asks earnestly as Pete lets go of Patrick’s hand to open the coat closet and retrieve their jackets.

“He’s gonna be fine.”

“Should I not give him as much next time?” Pete shrugs.

“He deserves to make his own decisions, just like the rest of us.” Jon nods, agreeing. 

“Yeah, yeah. Well,” he pulls Pete into a hug, “see you soon, yeah? I’m serious, drop by some more. I’m always here.” Jon pulls Patrick into an equally tight hug. He knows Jon can feel it between his legs and Jon laughs a little, breathily, and keeps Patrick where he is. Patrick wants to drop dead, mostly. “Good to meet you, Patrick. Feel free to come by whenever.”

“Thanks, yeah, see you.” Patrick says. They let themselves out and the door shuts behind them. Patrick watches the lights from the house in the rearview mirror until they have to turn right onto Spruce. 

+

That whole escapade really complicates things. Patrick’s a little bit freaked out, now that he’s actually, you know, _seen it_. Whenever he jerks off in the shower, he rarely lasts for more than thirty seconds, maybe forty. It’s a lot harder to keep quiet. And it was _Pete_ for god’s sake, so that doesn’t make their phone conversations any easier. Just the sound of his voice, the same voice that spoke so gently to Ryan at Jon’s house, leaves him half hard with the phone heavy in his damp palm.

He’s too freaked out to even think about it around other people. Joe even notices, one day in gym class when they’re changing and Joe flicks his shirt to hit Patrick in the chest lightly to get his attention and Patrick gets a flash of Pete pumping over Ryan’s body and Patrick jumps and yelps and the rest of the locker room laughs for a moment.

“Dude,” Joe says, pulling the shirt over his head.

“Don’t flick that at me, gosh.”

“Sorry, I just wanted to know the English homework. Why’re you so jumpy?” Patrick combs his fingers through his hair nervously.

“I’m not. Jeeze, just leave a guy alone when he’s changing.”

“Well sorry.” Joe doesn’t ask about the English homework again.

And then things start getting really out of control. Because Patrick is fifteen and still sort of edgy about the whole puberty deal, even though it officially happened, what, two years ago. He always remembers his wet dreams, is the point, and in the week that follows, the three of them that he has are decidedly abnormal. For one, he’s in his own dreams again, which he always thought was somewhat narcissistic for his body to get off on just the thought of his own body. Second, Pete’s been in all the dreams. Sometimes even with Brendon, going down on Patrick or stroking his dick with heated eyes. And once Ryan, but that wasn’t so much of wet dream, maybe just a dream, because Ryan ended up chasing him down the school hallways that were also crowded with snakes.

So Patrick spends the better part of school that week trying to convince himself that having dreams about his friend is clearly indicative of internal sexuality issues that need proper attention. Which is where he gets the idea that maybe Pete let him watch them with Ryan because Pete can see all those issues in Patrick; the terrible, terrible (probably correct) idea. 

And then on Friday, when all Patrick wants to do is talk Pete into picking him up and taking him back to Jon’s house, Patrick walks in on another awkward twist. Patrick doesn’t even hear anything abnormal when he gets home from band practice after school, quietly closing the kitchen door and kicking his shoes off. He goes for his room to throw his books and trumpet case in before returning to the living room to enjoy a peacefully uninterrupted conversation with Pete until his mom comes home from work. He opens the door to his room and freezes.

On his bed, Kevin is reclining, legs open. In his lap a head of black curly hair is bobbing up and down and it doesn’t take many other clues for Patrick to freak out. Kevin opens his eyes and sees Patrick and stills completely, going silent. Patrick stutters a little and drops his books, pulling the door shut immediately. Pete’s in his driveway ten minutes later.

Patrick runs out to Pete’s car before Pete can turn off the radio. He flings open the door and sits hard in the passenger seat.

“Well I-”

“Let’s go somewhere. Anywhere else.” Patrick interrupts decisively before Pete can make any snappy remark. 

“Sure.” Pete clunks the car into gear and they start driving; Janis Joplin on the radio. At the first red light they encounter, Pete turns to Patrick.

“So am I ever going to know why you called me in a fit and insisted I pick you up as soon as humanly possible? Or are you going to hold that over my head?” Patrick sighs and turns too. In a rare moment of confidence, Patrick bites his lip and moves a tiny lock of hair from his own forehead with the tips of his fingers. He shifts in his seat and looks down at his lap and then over to Pete again.

“Do you think we could go to the Flats?” Pete stares at Patrick until a resounding honk pulls him from his thoughts. They drive silently, sun slipping under the horizon until Pete pulls off the main road and onto a roughly paved road that runs through a forested area. They arrive at the infamous Flats as the world begins to turn dark. There are a few sporadic cars, but the plain is mostly empty. It’s a picturesque view of the miles of suburbs that stretch around, grids of white and yellow for each house and streetlamp in between patches of blackness.

Pete cuts the engine and stares out the windshield. People don’t come to the Flats for the view and it’s only a matter of time before Patrick makes some sort of move.

“How’d you meet Ryan?” Patrick asks, unbuckling his seatbelt and bringing a leg up, bent at the knee and tucking under his body. 

“Brendon and Jon are friends from school,” Pete says shortly, gaze darting from the radio that’s still softly humming and the otherwise quiet outside. “Not sure how Brendon and Ryan know each other, but they do. And Jon and I were in SDS and went to the convention together and all that. Circuit buddies or something.” A smile traces across Pete’s chin.

“Are you in school?”

“I- yeah, sort of.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t really go that much. It’s- I don’t know.”

“Are you there because…” Patrick’s voice trails off when he realizes he probably shouldn’t have said the first thing that popped into his mind.

“The draft? No,” Pete says dismissively, “no they-, I’m not the kind of person you want to draft.”

“What do you mean?” Patrick asks again. Pete shakes his head.

“I can’t handle my artillery.”

“I, don’t think I understand.” Pete closes his eyes and explains.

“I have terrible anxiety and a case of depression. They’d rather keep me here. And I’d rather stay here.”

“Is that why you don’t-” Patrick leaves it open ended; _do drugs_ is what he wanted to say, but it sounds too strange and naïve, even in his head.

“I don’t want to push my luck. Or talk about this anymore, quite frankly.”

“Sorry.” Patrick bites his lip and looks down at his nails. He still has grey traces of markings from Spanish class when he gutted a number two pencil and rolled the lead around in his hand. 

“What’s on your mind? I know you didn’t ask to come out here to talk about Ryan and convince me to enlist.” For the first time since they parked, Pete looks at Patrick, expecting an answer. Patrick takes a deep breath.

“I was hoping we could…” Patrick’s voice trails off.

“What, Patrick. Say it.”

“I was hoping we could mess around. A little. If you wanted.” There; he’s said it. The rush of _oh my god, what have I said_ settles in only after he realizes that Pete can still object. 

“I don’t want you to think I’m saying no, but Patrick, I don’t- I don’t know.” Patrick hasn’t looked at Pete since the words escaped his mouth.

“I just. I’ve thought about it.” He really hasn’t _stopped_ thinking about it. Fantasizing and staying up late till after Kevin falls asleep so he can think about it more and more. “And it’s something I want to do, you know, with someone I like and trust.”

“I like you, Patrick. I just- don’t know if I’m what you’re expecting. Are you sure?”

“Yes, so sure. Really really sure.” Patrick nods his head for emphasis and resumes biting his lip. Pete opens the car door quickly and Patrick’s stomach drops for just a moment before Pete leans down and looks at Patrick.

“Let’s take this to the back, yeah?” Patrick opens his door and moves into the back before Pete can shut his. They slide across the bench seat until their thighs bump. Twisting at their torsos, Pete brings a soft hand to Patrick’s cheek. Patrick visibly shivers at the touch.

“So, what do you want to do?” Patrick’s thought process is delayed by the warmth on his face. 

“Could I, just,” Patrick can’t even articulate what he wants to say. Boldly, his hand travels up Pete’s leg and settles, at first lightly and then with increasing confidence, harder in his lap.

“It’s okay. Keep going, if you want.” Pete says coolly. Patrick takes both hands as to calm his motions and Pete lifts up for him so Patrick can unbutton his hip huggers. He does such and pushes them down, pooling at his knees. Pete’s not wearing any underwear and his cock isn’t really that hard. It’s the first time Patrick’s had enough attention to devote to solely Pete’s anatomy. Pete breathes out a steady breath at the exposure.

Patrick wraps a hand around Pete’s cock and gives it a slow tug. Pete moans low, appreciative. Patrick takes this as a “go ahead” and increases the intent of his movements and makes a conscious effort to duplicate the way he likes it when he’s in the shower or in his room when Kevin’s at a friends house or on the phone with Pete on Tuesdays when no one’s due home for another hour—any time he’s alone. 

Pete fingers the hair at the back of Patrick’s head. He’s been growing it out a bit, which means that he hasn’t had the time or energy to ask his mom to cut his hair. Acutely aware of his breathing, Patrick swallows audibly and Pete thumbs at the curves of Patrick’s ear. Patrick feels the tiniest bit of push, pressure from Pete’s hand on his neck. He can’t mean to- Patrick really likes this, wants to keep going and make it worthwhile because he’s been wanting to do this ever since he gathered up all his courage to strike up a conversation with the dejected guy in the lonely booth in the school gym. 

Again, the pressure on the back of his neck becomes more apparent and he makes eye contact with Pete. There’s some wordless communication in which Patrick gets the feeling that he’s about to take four giant steps forward in the great journey of his sexual experience because, wow, he hasn’t even kissed Pete and he’s already got his cock in his hand and his mouth is watering at the thought of joining it.

Patrick scoots back on the seat so he can bend at the waist and get closer to Pete’s lap. A noise escapes Pete’s mouth that indicates approval and Patrick goes still at the sight in front of his eyes. He’s fifteen for god’s sake; do all fifteen year olds get themselves in this situation? Their short and clumsy hands curled around a much older guy’s junk in the back of the car on a Friday night. Patrick doesn’t entertain the thought much longer because Pete’s making the tiniest thrust upward and hitting his cheek with the very tip of his cock (that’s fully hard now, by the looks of it).

What the hell, Patrick thinks, he’s already practically there and this is practically a done deal anyway and he’s wanted to get this over with practically since Kevin first sang the praises of getting to second base (two months ago) and since he saw Pete giving this thing to Ryan like it was his civic duty. And Joe’s been expressing some weird curiosity as to why he and Patrick don’t ride bikes on Fridays anymore, so Patrick figures he might as well have a good story to tell Joe as a warped kind of excuse. ( _“Sorry, was too busy running the bases in my college friend’s car. Oh, also, have you ever seen two guys going at it? Because it’s pretty groovy…”_ ) So Patrick takes a deep breath and exhales. Then takes another deep breath and exhales that one too. Then takes a really deep breath and slowly lets it out as he brings his mouth to Pete’s cock.

He forgets about the head all together and fits his lips between his teeth and Pete’s skin and goes down until his gag reflex kicks in. And he does just that.

“Hey,” Pete’s voice is raspy above, “chill out, you have time.” But Patrick apparently isn’t very good at listening, so he pulls up in too much of a hurry and goes down again with the same results.

“Patrick, you don’t have to impress me. Don’t worry about anything. Just enjoy it.”

 _Easy for you to say_ , Patrick thinks, licking the tip of Pete’s dick experimentally with the broad part of his tongue. He slides off the seat and kneels on the floorboard, perfectly level with Pete’s lap.

“Yeah yeah, like that.” Patrick licks along Pete’s cock delicately, feeling awkward as hell when his mouth makes some weird slurping noise and Pete doesn’t so much as address it. Apparently this is par for the course with Pete, but he gives Patrick small indicators of what to do next, touches his ear and finds the places where his skin in thinnest, pressing over them like he’s dusting them off. 

Patrick remembers a particular image and strokes Pete’s cock assuredly once then takes all he can fit comfortably in his mouth. He sucks in; increasing the pressure all around Pete and his mouth feels very insignificant and small. Shortly after, he lessens his pressure and bobs up then down on Pete. Pete’s head lolls back and he moans, thrusting up just a bit again, letting himself enjoy it.

And Patrick sort of finds a rhythm in his motions. It’s still a surprise when Pete pushes Patrick’s head down further or lifts his hips off the seat and bucks into Patrick’s mouth. And breathing becomes an issue when, at the onslaught of one particular thrust from Pete, Patrick sort of forgets to take a breath in and some of his spit goes back the wrong way and he narrowly avoids biting Pete by pulling off as fast as he can, coughing and hacking and trying to apologize. Pete gives him an encouraging smile after that and Patrick feels a new wave of determination wash over him as he goes back for more.

Pete holds his hair, twisting it tensely as he whispers hoarsely.

“Patrick,” is all he says and Patrick knows. He mentally preps himself and pulls back, lips ghosting over the soft skin as he backs off. Pete takes hold of his dick and rubs himself with sure and concentrated strokes and bites his lip and Patrick looks up. The moment between their eye contact and Pete’s come on his face is long and breathless. Patrick must look some shade of weirdly desperate and definitely terrified because Pete’s face softens considerably like he’s about to call the whole thing off. Pete grunts quietly to himself and ropes of come spurt from his dick and hit Patrick in the chin, on his cheek, a tiny bit on his lip, on Pete’s hand and his naked thighs.

Patrick shivers and climbs back into the seat beside Pete, awkwardly unsure of what to do next. He doesn’t mean to be impolite, but he really didn’t like the taste of his swallow and he kind of wants to get the rest of it, you know, off his face. Pete leans down gingerly and rummages under the various items on the floor, procuring a lone tube sock. 

“Here,” Pete turns to Patrick and moves to wipe at his face. But Patrick stops him, hand on Pete’s wrist and inspecting the article more closely. 

“I’m not sure which is worse,” Patrick sort of jokes. But Pete laughs anyway and gets to Patrick’s cheek and chin before he can protest again.

“It’s clean, promise. Otherwise the car wouldn’t smell this fresh.” Patrick feels kind of belittled as Pete cleans him off, but he lets himself be taken care of, lets Pete guard him even if it’s only for a brief moment. All too soon, the rough cotton feel of the sock leaves his skin and Pete cleans himself off. He opens the door and Patrick thinks a dejected _oh God_ but Pete just tosses the sock into the brush as far as it’ll go and shuts the door again, still inside the backseat. 

“So,” Pete starts, palming Patrick’s hand between their legs, where they’re not touching. The gesture is sweet and unexpected and Patrick sighs quietly and curls his fingers around Pete’s. He makes a content noise before replying with a lovesick breath.

“So,” he says, definitively.


End file.
